And involuntary shiver ripples down my spine.
“If you choose to be stubborn, I’ll make the decision for you.”
His breath fans across my lips.
For a wild moment, I imagine what it would be like if this weren’t coercion—if his touch were invitation rather than command.
Ruthlessly I shove the thought away, focusing on the ache in my foot, the despair in my father’s voice.
“We can be married at the Bella Rosa in Las Vegas.”
At the casino owned by Lorenzo Carrington.Conveniently the reputed mobster also happens to be Dante’s cousin.“No.”
He smiles as if anticipating my answer.
My throat dry, I swallow deeply, hating the way the pressure of his touch makes my skin tingle.
Needing some breathing room, I grab his wrist and move his hand away from me.
“In that case, it will be the St.Louis Cathedral.”
That’s also a hard no from me.
Rumor has it that his older brother, Matteo, forced Alessia DeLuca to marry him there.
My breath catches, the image flashing through my mind—the soaring arches, the stained glass filtering light in jeweled patterns, the echo of footsteps on marble floors.
I won’t walk down the aisle of the cathedral where generations of Morettis have worshipped.
“There are no other options.”
Swiftly I reconsider.
It’s a more public venue, some place where I’ll have potential allies and maybe some distractions that present a sliver of opportunity for me to escape without igniting a full war.
But it also means parading this farce before a priest, potentially sealing my fate in front of those who know the Russo name and the elites who will whisper about my humiliation long after.
He trails his fingers down the column of my throat, then across my collarbone.
“Don’t touch me.”But my words are breathless.And this time, I don’t move his hand away.
“You’ll know you’re mine.”He allows his fingers to drift lower, brushing the swell of my breast through the shirt.
I gasp.
The sensation is electric, pooling warmth between my thighs despite everything.
Against my own wishes, my body arches slightly toward him.
His eyes darken with hunger, and shame rushes through me as he reads my response.
“Valentina.”He leans in, forcing me to confront the pull between us.My abductor.The man who tends my wounds and touches me as if I’m made of spun glass.
With deliberate intent, as if he already owns me, he moves his hand to cup my breast.
I suck in a sharp breath.
“So responsive.”
